


Confessions

by Turdle



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Agnostic Character, Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Execution, F/M, Gen, Guilt, Ishbal | Ishval, Post-Canon, Religion, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turdle/pseuds/Turdle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Father Brendan meets a lot of non-believers. This faceless man is special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions

Father Brendan has learned not to say he’s heard it all before. On the contrary, he believes that the God he believes in has a sense of humor, and is fond of surprises. Even so, he’s not prepared for this particular cosmic joke during confession.

The sliding door snaps shut on the other side of the screen. Father Brendan greets his child warmly, and evenly recites the greeting he gives to every member of his flock.The voice that replies is both unfamiliar, and amused.

“I don’t believe in God,” he says. “-but I believe in confessing my sins.”

This is something Father Brendan has never heard before. “God accepts struggling with your belief. You are always welcome in His House, as you recognize, and repent for your sins.” The priest replies, not entirely certain it was what he should have said, but feeling very much like heneededto say it. “What sins must you confess to, my Child?” He can’t see who is on the other side of the confessional, but he can almost heart he wryness in the other man’s voice.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what counts as a sin your religion.”

Something about this stranger’s voice is compelling enough that Father Brendan relaxes, and almost smiles to himself. “The usual sort, I suppose. The mortal sins, theft, adultery, murder, vengeance…gambling, promiscuity.”

The rich laughter from the other side isn’t wholly invested in its amusement. “Gambling? No, no…” A shuffle echoes on the other side of the screen. “I’ve killed children before. Gambling should hardly count.”

The priest’s blood runs cold, and he fights off a shiver.

“A soldier doesn’t choose his orders. But he must be the one who follows them.”

 _Ah, that made more sense_. “My Child, did you serve in the War in Ishval—?”

“Thank you for your time, Father.”

The sliding door snaps shut as the stranger leaves.

* * *

 

“I don’t believe in God, but I believe in penance.” The same voice says, nearly a month later.

“You didn’t stay long enough to receive any.” Father Brendan points out.

“Nothing I do here will fix what I’ve done.”

He can’t argue with that - this man doesn’t believe to begin with.

“I confess, I’ve coveted another man’s job.”

“Do you believe you can work to stop those feelings?”

“On the contrary, I hope to follow them.”

* * *

 

“I don’t believe in God, but I believe in hell.”

“My Child—”

“-My best friend is dead. And whoever killed him deserves a hell to be damned to.”

* * *

 

“I don’t believe in God,”

“—But?” Father Brendan asks, curiously. The amusement in his strange follower is obvious, even without seeing the man’s expression.

“But nothing. I don’t believe in God. I place my faith in science.”

Father Brendan says nothing in response, waiting for the rest of what the man has to say.

“A man almost died because of me. He may never be able to walk again, although I saved his life. I blame myself.”

* * *

“I believe in perfection.”

“God’s creation is perfect.” the priest replies, knowing it’s a bit of a lost cause, but feeling the desire to try anyways,

“I confess I love a woman I shouldn’t.”

“Is she married—?” Father Brendan begins, cut off by the snap of the door on the other side. He’s not surprised.

* * *

 

He doesn’t hear that voice again for years. In fact, the mysterious man never shows again, and though he finds his way back into Father Brendan’s thoughts every once in awhile, most days he is all but forgotten. A lost soul that the Father wishes he could have done something more for. 

A face he wish he could have told that it would be alright. That someday, he would learn, would heal, would forgive, would love. He supposes that there are lessoned to be learned from welcoming such souls into his church, but Father Brendan never shares his anonymous visitor’s troubles. Never so much as even mentions it to a fellow brother in the church. 

It would be a breach of etiquette, he thinks, to share. 

And mostly, he selfishly wants those moments to be his own. A voice from the crowds, faceless and yet no less real.

* * *

 

He’s working idly at his desk years later, quietly listening to the radio before he hears it - the voice - once again, and his heart jumps in surprise. It is akin to hearing an old friend’s voice again, and Brendan fumbles for the volume on his radio, the sound of that same unmistakeable voice filtering through.

“I plead guilty. I was a weapon of the state during the Ishvalan War, leading to the genocide of the Ishvalan people at my own hands, I am a war criminal-“ 

Shouts filled the news cast, presumably from the courthouse in Central. Father Brendan stared at his radio, eyes widening in recognition. Everyone in the country had been following the war trials of the Ishvalan War of Extermination. They had been started by the very man who had set out to restore Ishval, a puzzling proposition at best. It had seemed, to the average bystander, that Roy Mustang wanted to be put on trial.

Brendan’s hand went to cover his mouth.

General Roy Mustang continued over the din. “I confess that without my compliance, it is possible a great number of people would not have died. I believe in justice, and accept the consequences of my having won the War for the Amestrians. I am no war hero. I cannot be absolved of these crimes.”

This time, Brendan leaves the room before he was done speaking.

* * *

 

The uproar of the outcome of the most important trial lasts a full week, but the court’s hand has been forced. Mustang never attempted to point out that he didn’t orchestrate the war, didn’t manage it, never did anything besides follow orders and protect his men. There’s no room to be on his side.

The last day of the week is set aside, and there are constant broadcasts over the radio as Roy Mustang, ex-General, is marched from Central City Prison to the Capitol. He makes it as far as the main street that connects the two buildings before Brendan hears a noise he knows in his heart must be a gunshot. 

Father Brendan’s heart falls; it is clear that someone wanted to ensure that Roy Mustang ended up dead.

The next few hours are a fury of searching for Mustang’s assassin, but by the time they find the sniper in question, it is clear that she is one of Mustang’s own men, and she is already dead. 

A gag order is put on the media immediately, and the strangeness of it all is never addressed. Not once. Rumors fly abound: Roy Mustang died smiling, Riza Hawkeye was hysterical, there was something going on between them, but no one knows the truth. And those that seem to know are tight lipped. But both Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye receive Military burials with honors for their years of service.

Father Brendan doesn’t receive an invitation, but he receives a letter in the mail, sent in the care of one ‘Mdme. Christmas’ signed and dated nearly a year ago, but postmarked from that week.

* * *

 

_Thank you for your kindness, Father. It did more than I can ever say. By the time you will obtain this letter, I will have no more sins of your religion, or any other’s, left to confess. In all senses, my affairs are in order. While I do not believe in God, I do believe in penance. With your help, I have begun mine._

_Thank you._

_— R. Mustang._


End file.
